


Lepidopterae

by tielan



Series: The Time Traveller's Husband [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Time Traveler's Wife, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Community: mcuflashmeme, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 16:43:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6813952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s neither Steve Rogers, little guy, nor Steve Rogers, Captain America – not yet. The title is his but not the truth. And the dissonance between what he’s been named and what he is jars at a soul that’s never shied away from the truth – however he perceives it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lepidopterae

**Author's Note:**

> This could be more accurately described as "The Time Traveller's Husband". It's a segment in a longer story I conceived about a year ago, mapped out, and never completed. (It got epic and I ran out of time.)
> 
> For the MCU Flashmeme challenge of week 19: _A story set in a theatre._

The tug of the travel-jump comes in the restroom of an expensive hotel, and Maria has just enough time to tag her app before the world dissolves into velvety darkness.

The scent of cleaning chemicals replaces the careful perfume of the restrooms – harsh bleach and strong soap. Under her heels the floor vibrates with the thunder of dancing feet. There’s music – a rousing nationalistic piece from the beat of it, the full brass band with the distant overlay of voices launching into the final chorus. Her phone screen light shows a janitor’s closet, and the thin line of gold under the door suggests night-time – confirmed by the darkness outside the small, high vent.

There are voices outside, male, middle aged, murmuring as they go by, and she waits for them to pass, then carefully turns the doorknob – shiny brass under her fingers.

She slips neatly out into the corridor, moving confidently, like a woman who knows exactly where she’s going – even if she doesn’t. And hoping quite fervently that her dress for the evening will blend into whatever’s being worn here – it’s always so awkward making the explanations, even if she never has to explain it to—

_Steve._

He’s just coming off the stage now, pausing in the wings as one of the suited men pulls him aside to talk, while the chorus girls can clatter off amidst the applause of the crowds. On the stage, the emcee is talking  brightly about pocketbooks and donations, military bonds, and helping their men at war.

Maria’s watching Steve.

He looks younger here – so much younger, his expression more open, more frank. It’s not just the passage of time, Maria thinks, it’s the _youthfulness_ – the sense about him that he has so much ahead. And, yes, she’s seen him younger, but it was a different younger – the man whose physical frailty belied the spirit inside him, and who wore that frailty in the drawn lines of his face. Here and now, he looks...young and hopeful, in a way she’s never seen him before.

This, she thinks, would be the first time since Abraham Erskine—

“Maria?” His voice is hesitant, uncertainty sketching lines across his brow as he stares at her in growing delight. “Hey.”

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” she says, because the suit is looking from Steve to her with a faintly speculative look. “I can wait.”

“No, we’re done.” He comes towards her, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to pull her into his arms and kiss her. She steps back, disconcerted by the open intent, and he stops just in front of her, looking down at her like he’s never seen her before. Then he smiles, tentatively. “I wasn’t sure if you’d come back.”

“I don’t think I have a choice.” It comes out more droll than she intends, and his expression falls, growing serious and apprehensive.

He’s so _young_.

Maria smiles, in spite of herself. “So this is the USO?”

“Yes.” He looks down sharply, as though suddenly remembering he’s in costume. He winces and smooths his hair back with a self-conscious hand. “It’s a job. And it’s getting me closer to the frontlines. But you—How long are you here this time? Can you--? I’ll have some free time while they get everything packed up. We could...talk?”

“If I can stay, I’ll stay.”

“Okay. Wait here... Or—” He herds her over to a desk where a youngish man is scribbling things down and muttering to himself. “Simon, this is Maria – a friend who’s come to see me. I’m just going to change out, I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

He gives her a grin of startling brilliance, and jogs off to his dressing room.

“A friend, huh?” Simon sits back and regards her with a measuring eye. “He ain’t mentioned you. Only this Bucky guy. All the time, it’s about his buddy Bucky. I figured him to be temperamental, you know?”

Is he fishing? Or just gossiping? Maria redirects the conversation. “Bond sales?”

“They’re doing pretty well. We’re putting our contribution in. And it’s better than being on the frontline.” Maria doesn’t disagree out loud; not everyone is suited to a plan in their head and a gun in their hand. But Simon continues, tucking his hands in the side pockets of his vest. “So, you’re from town? Or just passing through?”

“Passing through.”

“And figured you’d drop in to see Steve?”

The smirk is decidedly off-putting. Maria puts on her best Sphinx impression – the one that’s frustrated variously Alexander Pierce, the World Security Council, and Tony Stark throughout her career – and answers blandly. “Yes.”

She doesn’t offer anything more, and Simon seems disconcerted by her stonewalling. When she doesn’t try to continue the conversation, he frowns, then shrugs, pulls his hand out of his pocket and goes back to scribbling.

About five minutes later, Steve comes up, dressed in a neat, dark suit, his hair brushed, his collar open. “Harry said there’s a diner down the road; they’re going to stay open a little later so the crew can get a bite. If you’d like that.”

“I’d like that.”

He offers her his arm, and there’s a moment when Maria’s tempted to give him the eyeball and tell him she doesn’t need his assistance to walk down the corridor.

Then Simon shifts at his desk, and she’s reminded _when in Rome_.

As she tucks her hand into the crook of his arm and looks up at Steve, she catches the naked relief in his expression – as though he expected her to reject him. Then it settles to a smugness she recognises only too well, and when he draws her up against him, she presses her elbow into his ribs. “Easy, soldier.”

The sudden shadow that passes over his face is a sharp reminder that he’s not a soldier yet.

They head outside, Steve setting a brisk pace that seems uncharacteristic, until Maria realises that he wants out of the theatre before anyone stops them and starts asking questions.

They’re challenged once at the door to what must be the change room for the chorus girls. A woman steps out into the corridor in a wool coat and a hat that looks almost like a beret, and before she closes the door behind her, Maria glimpses a sea of light and skin and curls and stockings.

“Stevie.” The woman eyes Maria and doesn’t ask for an introduction. “Are you going around to the diner?”

“Yes, we’ll be there.” Steve indicates Maria. “Dolly, this is Maria. Maria, Dolly.”

“Pleased to meetcha.” The accent is midwest, with a faint twang.

“Likewise.”

Dolly arches her brows, and Maria can almost see the thought that passes through her head. _Thinks she’s too good for the likes of us._ “Didn’t know you had a girl, Stevie!”

“I...” He glances at Maria, hope and uncertainty and question in that look.

“He doesn’t.” She says it gently, but the muscles under her fingers tense. It pains her, but this man – this Steve Rogers in this time – has no claim on her.

“Ah.” Dolly can’t quite hide her surprise and pleasure at the news, even if she mutes it for Steve’s sake. “Well, enjoy your night. I’m off to see my cousin and her family – they moved down here in ‘37, he’s got relatives who could help them. I’ll see you on the bus, then, Stevie!”

They continue out to the stage door, where the trucks are already being backed in for loading up.

“Do you move on tonight?”

“Yeah. Last night and tonight. Tomorrow...” He hesitates. “I can’t remember. They all blur after a while, you know?”

Outside, the night is brisk, and Maria shivers – she arrived in her dress, but without her coat. Without a word, Steve strips off his jacket and slides it around her, his hands brushing over her shoulders as he settles it there. Then he offers her his arm again and they set off towards the road.

“How long have you been doing this now?”

“Four months. Over three hundred performances. A million dollars in bonds and war stocks. It’s helping.”

But not the way he wants to help – not the way he joined up to help. And Maria has nothing to say to that which wouldn’t be trite, a platitude he doesn’t want or need to hear.

It’s not until they’re out in the breezy darkness, crossing Main St on their way to the brightly-lit diner that Steve speaks again. “You called me ‘soldier’. And it didn’t sound like a joke. So I _do_ get to the war?”

And Maria finds herself in a quandary.

In all the years she’s been jumping through his life, this is the first time Steve’s asked about his future – the first time he’s wanted to know.

It’s a turning point – the crux point between innocence and knowledge. The fruit of the knowledge of futures past.

Why now? Why never before?

It comes to her in a rush. Because he’s presently in limbo, between what he used to be and what he hoped to be. Because he’s still growing into the man who’ll become the legend – not just the political legend but the military one. Because once he realised where she came from and what she could do and what she was to him, he understood that a little knowledge could be so very dangerous, so very damaging.

He’s neither Steve Rogers, little guy, nor Steve Rogers, Captain America – not yet. The title is his but not the truth. And the dissonance between what he’s been named and what he is jars at a soul that’s never shied away from the truth – however he perceives it.

Does he get to the war?

“Yes,” Maria says as they reach the kerb and step up to the sidewalk again. “You get to the war.”

It’s a small piece of intel and it costs nothing. It doesn’t change who he is, or what he’ll do, but it gives him something more at a time when she thinks he might need that small kernel of hope to carry him through. It isn’t easy sitting on the sidelines while others go in to fight the battles that need fighting.

Maria should know.

And, yes, his grin is tight and triumphant, a brilliant flash of exultation. But rather than pester her with questions, all he says is, “Thank you. It’s good to know.”

Maria doesn’t have the heart to tell him that once he walks onto the battlefield after Bucky, he’ll never walk off it.


End file.
